Pride

The smoke of morning campfires covered the meadow like a sheepskin coat. Unsaddled horses dozed in small groups, and the breeze tugged at their matted manes and docked tails. Deep in sleep, the troops snored by the bonfires in battle-haunted slumbers, muttering and exclaiming anxious fragmentary orders. Some were jumping up with teeth chattering and doing physical jerks, then heating their mess tins, chewing on grubby pieces of lard from their haversacks, sipping tea as strong as pitch from dented mugs – scalding their lips owing to a habit of doing everything in haste.

Nearby a village lay in black, burned ruins. The sooty stumps of stoves and chimneys rose above the ashes. Weeping women sat on bundles and metal-hooped trunks, swaddling exhausted children in rags. Glum peasants picked through the ashes, poking with stakes and pulling out blackened earthenware pots, ploughshares, spades and knick-knacks from under the smouldering embers.

The only house left standing was occupied by the headquarters of the cavalry brigade. On benches, on the floor and on the stove, orderlies, clerks and billeting officers were snoring at varied volume and pitch. A pungent cloud of tobacco smoke hung in the air, with a smell of ripe footcloths, rancid sheepskin and damp humanity. On a wide bed, under a satin coverlet lay the brigade's youthful commander Ivan Chernoyarov, drawing on his pipe and spitting right across the room to the doorway.

A heavy fist pounded on the window frame, setting the panes ringing.

‘Hey, admin!’

Chernoyarov raised his scalp-locked head: ‘Who's there? What's up?’

‘Ivan Mikhailovich!’ Fedulov the sentry reached up to the high window, hung on by his hands and went on, eyes bulging: ‘There's a Chechen here, came galloping up, wants to see you in person … We’re holding him under arrest.’

‘A Chechen? Where is he?’

‘Here. We’ve brought him … He's waiting,’ shouted Fedulov and dropped down again.

Barefoot and sleepy, the commander went out onto the porch.